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I am ridding myself of deviantart, because I just don't have the time or energy anymore to keep up with it. That said, if you ever feel the need to contact me (and please feel free those that do, I'm always up for a good chat), just drop me a line at rjmacready71@yahoo.com ; I promise I'll reply to you!

I'll leave the page up for a few more days so this note can make the rounds to those who even give a damn.

Detective Renee Rodriguez awakes with a splitting headache and a confusion unlike anything she’s ever felt before. She’s had similar headaches though—they’re the kind of throbbing, muffled pains she gets sometimes when she drinks too much. And these days, she almost always drinks too much. But the confusion is new; it’s a very palpable thing.

As her senses slowly return to her, she feels like a surfer who has been knocked violently from her board by a tsunami-sized wave, struggling hard to swim back to the surface before it’s too late. She attempts to move a hand to her splitting head, but finds she can not. Awareness comes slamming into her, and she feels cold, hard steel locked around her wrists, which are pinned behind her back. A realization: she’s handcuffed. And of course, they are her own rigid police-issue handcuffs, because what other handcuffs could they be?

Quickly sitting up, her wild black hair falls into her face and she flips her head back to clear her vision. Renee assess herself and her surroundings. She is wearing her standard work day clothes—black pants, a cream colored blouse, a black blazer. Her leather boots have been removed, and her feet are clad only in thin black socks. She had been laying, and is now sitting, on a bare, uncomfortable mattress—something stained and slightly foul smelling, likely trash-picked. The mattress is sitting on a wooden floor in an otherwise empty room. There’s a window across from her, but several sheets of plywood have been nailed over it, thin slivers of light peeking through whatever cracks there are.

Other than her cuffed hands, she is otherwise unfettered. But the cuffed hands are enough to send off alarms. Renee plants her stockinged feet firmly on the floor, in an attempt to push herself up to a standing position. But her head suddenly feels soggy and a feeling of vertigo overwhelms her to the point where she is forced to sag back on this filthy fucking mattress, groaning inwardly as she does.

“Think,” she tells herself, trying very hard to remain calm and composed. “Where are you? How did you get here? Remember.” Memories come in blinks and bursts, like fireworks or the flashbulb of some antiquated camera. She had finished a 12-hour-shift. She was going to meet some of the guys—and in her job, everyone was “some of the guys,” even the few women she worked with—at Finnigan’s for a drink. And “a drink” was code for “several drinks.” Had she made it to the bar? She couldn’t remember.

She has visions of the other cops she met at Finnigan’s usually, their laughing faces. Loud bar music. Christmas lights strung around the bar blinking. She must have gone there. Then what? She would’ve called a cab, obviously. She was too intoxicated to drive, and even though she was a cop and clearly could get out of any sort of DUI, she was also responsible. She knew that she had a drinking problem, and she wasn’t about to risk smashing her car into some idiot pedestrian. So she had likely taken out her cell phone and—

Her cell!

With some difficulty, she twists her body and moved her cuffed hands towards the pocket of her pants, patting desperately for the rectangular bulk of the phone. It isn’t there. Of course it isn’t—whoever did this to her wouldn’t just remove her boots but then leave her fucking phone.

And that thought makes her suddenly very anxious—because it is the first time acknowledged that SOMEONE had done this to her. Of course someone had—she didn’t take herself to some strange room and handcuff herself. She was a drunk, but she wasn’t THAT talented of a drunk.

So then what? What happened? With her foggy memories, she recalls she had to step outside of the bar to make the call, because it was too fucking loud inside. So out into the cold December air she had gone, but not the front. No. She had gone out into the alley, through the side door. And then…nothing. Everything after that was gone, as if someone had sawed open her head and physically plucked the memory away.

On the other end of the room there is a shut door, and as Renee’s attention turns to it there is the faint sound of jingling keys, then a lock being turned. Renee sits up straight, clutching her cuffed hands into fists. The door swings open, and in steps something Renee was not expecting: a girl. The girl is probably in her late twenties. Renee herself is thirty-five, and the fact that this girl is clearly younger than her makes this all the more confusing. The girl wears a black tank-top, tight faded jeans, and black Doc Martin’s boots that come up to her calves. Her hair is red and tied up into a bun at the back of her head. She carries a water bottle, and has a black duffle bag slung over one shoulder. But what is most striking about her is the fact that she appears to be covered with tattoos. her bare arms are criss-crossed with colorful sleeves of ink. There is a burning heart tattooed onto her chest, just above the line of the tank-top. Even her neck is decked out in tatts, stopping just at her jawline.

As Renee stares at the tattooed girl, a sudden feeling of deja vu strikes her. She knows this girl, from somewhere. From some time. Where? When?

Renee licks her lips, which she suddenly realizes are very dry, and says: “W-where am I?”

The tattooed girl says nothing. She grabs a folding chair that is propped against a wall, unfolds it in front of Renee, and sits down in it. Up-close, Renee can see the girl is in exquisite physical shape. Her inked arms are tight with ropey muscle. She’s also quite beautiful, with striking grey eyes and thick, sensual lips. But there’s a cold look on her face, and it gives Renee the creeps.

“What is this?” Renee says. “What’s going on?”

The tattooed girl just silently looks her over, never blinking those grey eyes.

“Listen,” Renee speaks softly. Her police training takes hold of her. She needs to get control of the situation. She needs to make sure things don’t get anymore out of hand. “I’m a police officer. You need to think about what you’re doing. So far, things are not so bad, so we can work through this.”

That was a bunch of bullshit. Things WERE bad. This was kidnapping, and kidnapping of a police officer, to boot. This tattooed bitch was fucked, but Renee was not about to say such a thing. That would be stupid.

“Why don’t you uncuff my hands,” Renee says, never breaking eye-contact with the girl. “And we can talk.”

The girl smirks. She leans back in her chair and digs into the pocket of her tight jeans, producing a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. She slides a cigarette into her thick lips, then lights it, exhaling a cloud of smoke directly into Renee’s face. Renee blinks involuntarily and tries hard not to cough; tries hard not to show any sign of weakness.

“Who am I?” the girl asks, crossing her tattooed arms over her chest.

“What?” Renee asks, confused by the question.

“Who am I?”

“I…I don’t know. You tell me.”

The girl laughs, looking towards the boarded up window and shaking her head. “You don’t fucking know, do you?”

“Listen—“

“Of course you don’t. Why would you? Why would you remember me, you fucking cunt?”

“I don’t know what you’re planning to do,” Renee says. “But you need to talk to me, right now. We need to work this out, before you get in over your head. Before you do something you’ll regret.”

The girl unscrews the cap of the water bottle. “Drink this. You’re probably thirsty.”

Renee realizes that in fact she is thirsty; she’s more thirsty than she’s ever been in her life. Her mouth has a cottony feel. But she’s not about to drink something from this girl; it could be drugged.

The girl holds the bottle up to Renee’s lips and Renee accepts it. The girl tips the bottle back, and Renee takes long gulps. When she’s had enough, she tries to pull away, but the girl clutches the back of Renee’s head and forces the bottle hard against her mouth. Renee gags, spewing water, but the girl won’t let go. She forces Renee to drink the whole bottle, water splashing down onto her neck and shirt in the process. When it’s empty, the girl pulls the bottle away and Renee coughs out water, gasping for air.

The girl laughs at this, then says: “Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“Open your mouth.”

“Fuck you,” Renee says. She’s had enough of this shit. “You listen to me, you stupid bitch. I’m a cop, okay? Do you know what that means? You are in DEEP, DEEP SHIT. And you need to—“

The girl grabs Renee’s face with one hand, her thumb and index finger pressing into Renee’s cheeks, forcing Renee’s mouth open in an O. Renee struggles to pull away, but she can’t. The girl takes her cigarette with her other hand and taps the ashes off into Renee’s mouth, turning it into an ash tray. Renee cries out, startled, tasting the ash. The girl lets go and laughs again as Renee coughs and spits the taste of ash out.

“You fucking lunatic,” Renee gasps.

“Be thankful I didn’t stub the damn thing out on your tongue, whore,” the girl says.

“HELP!” Renee suddenly screams. “SOMEONE, HELP ME!”

The girl laughs once again, the hardest laugh yet. “No one can hear you, bitch. No one.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “Well, I can hear you, at least. And I’m already sick of it.”

She reaches down and grabs Renee’s ankles. Renee tries to kick at her, but she can’t really get any leverage, and her energy is still sapped from whatever this girl has drugged her with. The girl peels off Renee’s socks and rolls them into a ball. Then she grabs a fistful of Renee’s coal black hair and shoves the ball into the detective’s screaming mouth. Renee gags at the taste of the socks, which taste like fabric and sweat intermingled. She has no opportunity to spit them out though, because the girl is now pressing her own hand over Renee’s mouth, holding it shut. And with her other hand she digs into her duffel bag and produces a fresh roll of clear packing tape. With calm precision, the girl begins wrapping the tape over Renee’s lips, sealing them shut. She wraps the tape again and again, around the back of Renee’s head and over her lips, going through nearly half the roll, effectively gagging her.

“GMMPPHHHH!!” Renee moans pathetically. The girl pushes her back, causing her to flop onto the mattress. She shudders and screams muffled sounds through her gag.

“I’ll be back later,” the girl says, rising to her feet. “Maybe you should spend some time trying to remember who I am. And what you did to me.”

Then the girl is gone, slamming the door and locking it behind her. Renee, feeling utterly hopeless and helpless, begins to cry.

Thanks to all who voted on the poll. The winner, between the choice of the next installment of Hitchhiker Horror or a story about a female convict who gets out of jail and goes after the female cop who put her away is....::drumroll::....the female convict story. So that's what's coming next!

But to those kind folks who voted for the other story, I'm going to write that as well. So you're getting both, because I'm just a generous guy. Female con story is up first though.

The girl arrived at his home at the scheduled time. It was late—almost 2 a.m.—and sneaking out of her own house without waking anyone proved difficult. But it was worth it. To see him was always worth it to her.

His home was modest on the outside, but within it was like some sort of twisted museum. He had a job that netted him quite a substantial amount of money (he never told her what it was, and she would never dream of asking—personal details were against the rules), and he spent that money acquiring the strangest objects conceivable. Glass jars containing tumor ridden fetuses floating in formaldehyde; ordinary looking objects that were in fact items related to grisly homicides, purchased (illegally, of course) from police evidence lockers; human skeletons; Satanic tomes; an extensive collection of Ouija boards; shrunken heads—on and on the list went. Each object was in its own glass case, lit from the inside with hidden lighting. It would all be rather beautiful to behold, if it weren’t all so ghastly.

Usually he would great her at the door, and then their “session” would begin. But tonight, as she climbed the steps, she noticed a small white index card taped to the antique door knocker. With slightly shaking hands, she pulled the index card down. She took out her cellphone and read the card under the pale blue glow of her phone screen. In his carefully crafted scrawl, he had penned:

“Enter. Go to the kitchen. Drink from the cup—all of it.”

And that was it.

She shuddered, her mind racing with a million thoughts, all of them nasty and wonderful. She always tried to imagine what wonderful torture he would inflict on her before the session began—and even the most twisted, deviant thought that sprang to her mind was not even close to what he actually performed.

Pausing to catch her breath, the girl folded the note and placed it into the pocket of her jeans. She then stepped out of her black flats—no shoes in his house was another of his rules. It only applied to her, of course. He wore his shoes if he wanted to. With a quick push of the door, she was in the house, then she shut and locked the door behind her. The interior of the house was dark save for the gloomy glow from the glass display cases positioned about, illuminating their twisted objects within. Her bare feet padded against the cold floorboards as she made her way into his modernist kitchen, complete with black stone counter tops and stainless steel cabinets. There was a single hanging light on directly above the kitchen counter. Placed in the dead-center of the beam of light on the counter was a coffee mug. He must have just prepared it, because steam was rising from the rim. This sent a little thrill through the girl’s body—she had mistakenly assumed the man was not here yet. The fact that he was somewhere in the house, waiting for her, made legs feel as if they were suddenly composed of nothing but water.

The girl lifted the cup to her lips. A sweet aroma drifted up to her nose—it was some sort of tea inside. She hesitated for a moment, and then drank. The tea was warm, but not burning hot, and it slid down her throat soothingly. She drank until the cup was empty, and then daintily set it down. Almost immediately her head began to swam. She was not surprised—deep down she had been expecting something like this. And if she were being honest, deep down she had been hoping for it.

Her vision began to blur. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. Her senses dulled. Sound rushed in her ear as if she were sinking beneath a huge, monstrous wave.

I’ve got to make sure I don’t hit my head, was the last clear thought she had, and then she fell to her knees. It would’ve been painful—the floor was cold marble—but she didn’t feel a thing. A slight trickle of drool ran down her chin, and then she fell face-forward onto the floor and was still.

The waking world came slowly trickling back to the girl. It was as if she were swimming through murky, inky water with her eyes wide open—only seeing liquid darkness rolling away. It all faded into spots in front of her eyes, which eventually cleared completely. She knew exactly where she was: the dungeon.

It was really his basement, but he had spent a significant amount of money to turn it into his own private torture chamber. It wasn’t the cheap kind of sex dungeon someone might throw together on the cheap; it was almost elegant—as elegant as a sex dungeon could be, at least. The walls were polished stone, and he had installed lamps mounted along those walls. Edison bulbs burned within, casting pale light from their ghostly filaments. And then there were his devices—some purchased from auction houses and antique dealers, shipped in from all over the world. There was a rack; there was an iron maiden; there were things she didn’t even know the names of. All of them kept in pristine condition, illuminated with their own individual spotlights, just like his twisted museum upstairs.

The girl was in a chair; it was a chair with a surprisingly high back—the back stopping just at the base of her skull. He had stripped her of her clothes, which was no surprise. Her full figured body was exposed and her flesh prickled up in goosebumps as she slowly became more and more aware of her circumstances. She was acutely aware of a sharp, pleasurable pain within her ass, and she realized he must have slid a plug up into her before sitting her in this chair. The seat of the chair was not padded, and she felt the rough wood press against her bare ass as she shifted uncomfortably.

Leather straps were cinched tight over her arms wresting on the arm wrests. Her ankles were strapped to similar straps at the base of the chair. And a larger, thicker strap ran from around the back of the chair, tight across her large exposed breasts—so tight that it almost cut into the soft flesh.

“Hello,” she heard him whisper from the shadows. She clenched up, startled slightly.

“H-hello, Sir,” she said, her mouth feeling as dry as a sun scorched desert.

“Thirsty?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“It’s the drugs I used. They tend to dry your mouth. Water?”

“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” It was the three sentences he had taught her to say whenever he offered her something. It came out almost on instinct; it flowed from her lips like a mantra. It was always the right answer—no matter what he was asking.

He stepped from the darkness, dressed impeccably as always. A well pressed, spotless white Oxford shirt, the top two buttons open, the sleeves rolled up. Dark gray pants. Heavily polished boots. He was startlingly handsome; a severe handsomeness that conveyed darkness and danger. His eyes were deep dark wells that showed no real emotion. She shivered.

He brought a bottle of water to her lips, and she drank from it greedily, feeling some of the water dribble down her chin onto her strapped breasts. Then he was taking the bottle away and walking over to a wheeled metal cart, something that would be more at home in a sterile hospital operating room rather than this dungeon.

There was a metal bowl on the table. He reached inside the bowl and brought up a rag, which he squeezed and wrung out before shoving it hard into her still-dry mouth. She gagged, fighting her own instinct not to spit it out. It was sour—almost unbearably so. It made her dry mouth ache and burn, and she felt sour liquid dripping down her throat, causing her to wince; causing tears to well up in her eyes.

“I’ve soaked this rag in lemon juice,” he was explaining. “Do you like it?”

“Yef, Fir. Pleafe, Fir. Fanff flu, Fir,” she instinctively mumbled through the sour rag. A brand new roll of clear packing tape was produced, and he began wrapping it around her mouth and the back of her head, the tape pulling and tugging at her hair and squeezing her cheeks in against all that sourness. She squirmed against the straps, her bound feet kicking slightly against the floor. He wrapped nearly half the roll of tape around the lower half of her face, before tearing the piece off.

“I bought this chair at an auction,” he said, walking over to his metal cart, his back to her. She felt the rag burning her throat, trapped within by the tape. She involuntarily squirmed and struggled, helpless against the straps. “It was one of my most expensive pieces. You may have guessed what it is—or was—by now. An electric chair. It was nicknamed ‘Old Sparky,’ and it resided in a prison in Huntsville, Texas.”

She went rigid. Of course, in the back of her mind, hadn’t she suspected that’s what this chair was all along? But hearing him say it out loud made it real, and she felt cold all over.

“360 prisoners died in this chair,” he was saying. “Criminals. Murderers. The worst of the worst. One of the last men to be executed in it was Carlton Crawford. He was particularly awful. He abducted and tortured at least 50 young women. Snatched them right from their homes as they slept in their beds…helpless; vulnerable. He whisked them back to his home, and would torture them for days. Unspeakable acts. He said his goal was to make them beg him for death. Said it made him innocent of their murders—they asked him to do it, after all. Truly despicable human being. Without remorse to the very end.”

He was approaching her now. She nervously glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw he was holding a long, greased metal dildo. Wires stuck out from the back of the phallus, and she was both terrified and excited as to what he had planned.

“Can you feel all that evil?” he asked her as he slid the dildo up inside her cunt. She moaned through her sour gag, trembling with pleasure as he pushed it up as far as it could possibly go. “Soaked into that chair like sweat and piss and blood? Just pure, malignant evil. And your bare flesh pressed against it.”

The wires from the end of the dildo ran into a small black plastic box. Dead center in the box was a protruding red button. The man went to it, held it in the palm of his hand, and stood directly in front of her.

He said nothing, his eyes cold, burning into her. He pressed the button. In a flash, hot searing pain burned between her legs, tinged with pleasure. She was being shocked; it was a mild electrical shock, but when such a shock is being generated inside of a person, even something mild could be almost unbearable.

She squealed into her bitter, tight gag, her hands clenching into fists, her limbs and torso going taught against the straps. The man released his finger from the button and the pain went away. She sank into the chair, moaning, tears welling up in her eyes, her cunt slick and wet.

“More?” he asked.

She desperately shook her head “no,” but he pressed the button anyway.

“GMMMMMPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” she shrieked. Somehow the shock was worse this time. Her back arched against the back of the chair; her toes curled in. The man held his finger on the button for almost a full minute. He finally released it, and with it she felt a release as well, cumming violently, soaking between her thighs and the chair.

“Good girl,” the man said to her. He removed the dildo from inside her, wiping it clean with a rag before placing it on the metal cart. She panted, her entire body soaked with sweat. The man was pouring clear liquid onto a folded up rag. Before the girl had a chance to register what was happening, he was pressing the rag against her nose and gagged mouth. She smelled something sickly sweat, and then everything was dark.

When she came to, her head was groggy and her entire body ached. But she was no longer in the chair. And she was no longer in the dungeon.

She was fully dressed again, and was slumped over in the driver’s seat of her car. She sat up, groaning, holding her aching head. Her pussy throbbed. She was very, very tired. She looked up and saw she was still parked in front of his house. He had dressed her and placed her back in her car. Her purse was on the passenger’s seat, and she dug around till she found her keys. After getting her bearings, and being sure she could drive, she started the car and headed home, her cunt aching with painful pleasure well into the next day.

I am ridding myself of deviantart, because I just don't have the time or energy anymore to keep up with it. That said, if you ever feel the need to contact me (and please feel free those that do, I'm always up for a good chat), just drop me a line at rjmacready71@yahoo.com ; I promise I'll reply to you!

I'll leave the page up for a few more days so this note can make the rounds to those who even give a damn.